A Dear Melody
by skysedge
Summary: A guitar, a summer breeze and a letter for a soul. Hiroki muses on the power of song.


**A/N: **Blue sky spur of the moment fanfiction, go! I promised more Egoist a billion years ago and never wrote it so here's a little now. Inspired by the opening song of a completely different anime. Gold stars to anyone who can spot it. Drop me a review if you liked/hated it/want to prod me into more. That being said, onwards!

* * *

It'd be easy for you to think that I don't enjoy music.

My students certainly think so. That's only because they blast that sickening modern music from their flashy phones when they should be paying attention. You know the sort, where some angry young man might as well be chanting satanic rituals over a terribly repetitive baseline and every other word is a curse. It's not only an affront to music but to literature and humanity in general. _Students _don't 'enjoy' music. Students don't know how to.

That's all beside the point. The point is that you would be wrong and that I am sitting in a park listening to an elderly man play a guitar and that I think the music is wonderful.

He's not an especially talented player and it looks like he's having some difficulty getting all the right motions in, arthritis no doubt, but he's completely focussed and you can hear his concentration in the notes. There's a fountain behind him, like an accompaniment if you'll excuse me being so fanciful for once, and a small group of children have stopped to watch him. _Good _children. They're listening in silence with these big, stupid grins. I bet you were like that as a kid, all big-eared good intentions and toothy smiles.

See, this is why I like music. Real music. As you sit and listen, it makes you think of all sorts of things. It's like I've heard this song before at a set number of events on days like this, with an early summer breeze rustling the new leaves and the sun high in the sky, with the scent of flowers in the air. I think this man wrote this song. I haven't heard it with my ears before, anyway. It sounds like…

It sounds like the picnic, with your 'friends'. Like the moment you touched my head and showed me it was going to be okay. Sometimes the air just clears, doesn't it? And no matter what the season, it's suddenly summer and you can hear the light chords of an old guitar played by loving hands. It sounds like your big stupid grin on the day we met, as if you knew.

And it sounds like the simple things, the walks to and from the restaurant, holding hands in the long alleyway. It was dark a lot of the time but I could have sworn I felt the heat of the sun when you reached out for me each time. No, I'm putting the blame on you for that. When we reached out together is more accurate. That's what this music makes me think of, the small and simple mutual motions we make towards each other when I don't think I'm paying you enough attention but your whole being is focussed on mine. It's freeing, the feeling of fingers grasping yours just as your reaching for them. Justification, perhaps.

It sounds like clarity, then. Despite everything, all the times you've pissed me off or I've upset you, I actually think of the nicer moments the most. Sappy, isn't it? The guitarist is looking at me as if he knows, too. It's okay, he's probably picturing some young secretary type. But maybe not. The music still sounds like you, to me, and so maybe he knows you better than I do.

Literature is easier than music. Words can be painted into shape and pinned down. This is fleeting, drifting with the breeze, gathering pollen from the flowers and spreading it to all of us here. I wish you were here. That's what it makes me think. Not even to say or do anything but to just sit here, beside me, and be you. I can just imagine your face if I told you this in person and so I'm not going to. You frighten me sometimes, with faces like that. Too honest, maybe.

But this music sounds like honesty. You can't lie with music like you can with words, can't protect yourself and your pride. You have to give everything out into the air, as passionately as you can. It's why I'd never make a musician and why no one thinks I enjoy it. It makes me uncomfortable, music that has feeling to it that isn't anger. Anger is easy to pass around freely. I don't understand how this guitarist and how people like you can be so open and honest with your happiness. Isn't it frightening, letting people see your precious thoughts like that? Or is it exhilarating? I'm a man of old books and quiet rooms, not adrenaline rushes. You'll have to tell me about it one day.

But still. I like hearing it and I like what I think it hears in me. I'm thinking of a day out, you and I, driving to the coast and just watching the ocean. Were we playing the radio then? Was this playing? I don't think so but that's how I see it now. You and I and the sun and the breeze and a song to bind it all together. It sounds like…well.

It sounds like love, this melody. Just that.

And that's why I'm writing you this letter, even though just looking back over it makes me think I probably had too much to drink last night and am likely still suffering the effects. You don't _need _to be told any of this, you just _know, _as if you and my soul have this one to one connection that completely bypasses the rest of me. It's rude, you know, to two-time someone with their own heart. Bastards, both of you.

The music is stopping again. I should be going home. I'll throw this away before I get home. The river, maybe. Perhaps that's your trick after all. I'll put this in the water and the current will bleed the ink from the paper and send it straight into _your _soul, where he and I can have a nice little discussion about _you. _How does that feel, huh?

…like love. It still feels like love.

Well then. If you'll excuse me. The river isn't too far.


End file.
